Back in Black
Back in Black
Scott MacLeod
The umpire was invisible. Which was how he liked it. An ump in the spotlight meant he had screwed up. There never was any praise for proficiency. Only fixation on flubs and flaws. In such an imperfect world, somehow, as with parenting, the only acceptable level of performance here was perfection.
He had learned how to umpire in prison. Almost, but not quite, prepared him to deal with little league parents.
The kid had a good arm. And plenty of composure. With reason. The boy had been head of the household since age three. The young pitcher did not know why he bothered to scan the bleachers. He knew she would not be there.
The ump had not worked this league before. He knew the town, but from years ago. He had sought out this assignment. They went by seniority. So, he had waited a while for this day.
The kid’s first pitch was a fastball. Right down Broadway. The batter was only window-shopping at this point. Had left his billfold in the car. Watched indifferently as the pitch sailed by.
Strike one.
The kid tried a change-up.
A good change-up features the same arm angle and movement as a fastball, but the ball squirts out at a slower speed to disrupt the hitter’s timing. Looks to all the world like a fastball. But pulls into the station later than scheduled. The overeager, misled batter loads up to attack but arrives at his destination too soon.
This was not a good changeup.
As he wound up to deliver the pitch, the kid halted ever so slightly, a fatal tell that all but shouted, “Here comes a meatball.” As the slow ball floated in, announcing itself to the assembled crowd, the batter, without mercy, loaded up patiently, waited and rocketed a hot liner that seemed to be rising as it sailed over the left field fence and rattled around the parking lot.
A foot foul.
Strike two.
The young pitcher needed a new ball. Usually, the ump would hand one to the catcher. Or throw it himself out to the hurler. Here he did neither. Walked it out to the mound. Unusual. But not prohibited.
The ump knew a thing or two about changeups. About altered expectations. About time passing more slowly than hoped. About deception. He also had pitched a bit before his boyhood went awry. He too had to teach himself.
He handed the kid the fresh horsehide, but did so slowly, deliberately. Showing how he held it as he did so. Demonstrating how to throttle half the orb. So, the clean white dome of the new ball, just out of the box, peeked out from his circular chokehold like a dollop of vanilla atop a sugar cone. The perfect changeup grip.
The kid looked down. Understood. Took it in. Nodded to his unexpected benefactor. The masked stranger.
The ump knew the boy would try out his shiny, new toy right away.
The kid paced around the mound rubbing up the ball. Same lanky gait as the ump returning to his station.
The pitcher wound up and whipped his arm without any hint of hesitation or hitch, presenting by all appearances his speediest offering.
Except it was not.
It was a sheep in wolf’s clothing.
The still-born heater floated towards the plate a tick slower than its launch portended.
The ump could barely track its flight through the watery blur.
As if he was not calling it a strike no matter what.
The hitter committed to the offering and exploded into action. A hair too soon.
Synapses realizing the ruse too late to stop.
The arbiter in black continued to struggle to track the ball through his tears.
An empty swing, all wind and no menace, made the umpire moot.
Strike three.
The umpire too knew the pitcher’s mother would not be there. He reckoned she would not have known him if she had been. With or without his face guard.
The pitcher beamed. A quick learner. Feeling on top of the world on top of the mound. If only he could share it with family, he thought.
If only, thought the ump.
Scott MacLeod is a father of two who writes in Central Florida. His work has appeared recently in Flash Fiction Magazine, Punk Noir, Rmag, Micromance, Free Flash Fiction, Westwords, Microzine, Dead Mule, Close to the Bone, Roi Faineant, Urban Pigs, Every Day Fiction, Wrong Turn Lit, JAKE, Underbelly Press, Bristol Noir, Havok, Witcraft, NFFD Write-In, Coffin Bell, 10 By 10 Flash, Frontier Tales, The Yard: Crime Blog, Yellow Mama, Short-story.me and Gumshoe, with more forthcoming. His Son of Ugly weekly flash newsletter can be found on Substack at https://scottmacleod1.substack.com, on Instagram @scottmacleod478 and at http://www.facebook.com/scott.Macleod.334
Michael C. Paul is an illustrator, writer, and historian. He grew up outside of Kansas City, has moved around a bit over the years working as a history professor, illustrator, and occasionally an editorial cartoonist, and now lives in Northern Virginia with his wife and daughter. For more, visit https://mikepaulart.com or @MikePaulArt.
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